


Good Intentions

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, College Student Sam, Hunter Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Sad Dean, Stanford Era, Timestamp, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doesn’t need to ask Sammy to know what he’ll say. Knows his brother is doing this, with him and for him, cause it’s Sam and Dean. </p><p>In which there is an unconventional team, and Dean's a little bit off.</p><p>Part Two of Change My Attempt, Timestamp, Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 10 Years, by Wasteland. 
> 
> Change my attempt, good intentions.

Nick advises that no one else come near Lake Crescent until they’ve resolved whatever the issue is. Palms it off on the Police Department with worried eyes and Alpha-concern, metal and iron.

Dean gives him a long, sideways glance when he says this, sniffs the air with a decided lack of subtlety. Nick still _scents_ of lucidity. His high-altitude, cloud-covered smell hasn’t altered, although it’s lightly flavored with a dash of humor, and Dean flushes.

“I just--man, how the hell you manage to swing that one?” Nick grins, and Dean’s never seen him full out beam before, even though he’s only been near the guy for a week. “Sheriff’s a good family friend.” Nick’s smile dims, candle blown out by surprise wind, and Dean recognizes a touchy subject when he sees one. He’s like, the poster child for gracefully avoiding those.

Dean stands up, plods over to the kitchen for something to do, make Nick feel more at ease. He tugs his favorite mug down from the highest cabinet, it’s got a painted picture of Raphael on it and it made him significantly happy the first time he’d used it, and clears his throat.

“He owe you a favor?” He prompts, guiding Nick back to the subject at hand. Nick rises, and Dean can hear the crack-pop of sore kneecaps, and it’s different from the old man sound. That one stems from overuse and age.

Nick’s only three years older than he, and they’ve got hunters joints, crooked like swastikas, holy cause.

He walks into Dean’s field of vision, faded blue t-shirt catching against the wide breadth of muscle on his neck. Smaller smile on his face, pretty ghost of the previous. “Not a favor, just--” he searches for his own mug, blindly, half turned to face Dean, whose perched on a yellow-brown stool, cradling his black coffee. “he’s seen some shit. Got no reason not to trust me on this.”

Dean makes a knowing sound in his throat, burns his vocal chords with hot darkness, nods. Wrangling the law and the damned, in one hand. Scales and the absence of sight. Nick’s blowing at a burn on the inside of his thumb, beard shading the action.

“So he’s gonna make sure no one comes around, fucking shit up, while we figure out what’s causing this?” Nick nods. “Less trouble for us, less lies for him. People aren’t too keen on fishing there right now, anyway. Even they can see a pattern.”

Dean rises, black tar sloshing over the rim of the cup to slap his hand. “Fuck,” he mutters, licks the liquid away even though most of it has already dribbled into the crease between index and thumb. “That’s almost worse.” Nick’s agreeing, before Dean even finishes his sentence, and he glances up, pleasantly surprised. “I hate it, when they can tell too.” Nick completes, resignedly.

The Second Coming of the Great Flood hasn’t eased up in the slightest, and Dean doesn’t have a plethora of clothes to begin with, is pretty sure that no matter how often he and Nick dry their things, they’re still damp. Imagines he can scent the mold clinging to his boxers. He shudders.

Nick bumps his shoulder with his own, silent query. Dean growls in response. He’s good. Mostly. The Lake is still as turbulent as the first day they’d visited, but Dean knows better than to antagonize whatever’s plaguing the water, stays a good six feet away.

Thing can sense them, same as before, and Dean _hates_ that. Abhors the fact that this entity is self-aware. Means it’s just gonna be that much more ornery when he guts it. Nick snorts, and Dean would’ve never heard it if he weren’t so close to Dean, afraid to lose him in the dark that this Old Testament type shit is causing.

Dean is mindful that he’s projecting frustration, but he’s past the point of caring. Fucking water won’t allow them close enough to see anything that matters, and the entire thing is pissing him off to no end. When he calls Sammy back, he wants to give the kid something to go on.

_I know you got a feeling, Dean, but I can’t research on feelings_

Dean smirks, can hear Sammy’s cocksure voice in his head, clear as day, always too smart for his own good. Too damn efficient at everything he’s ever set his mind to.

Nick hollers for him then, only a good three feet away from the water, and Dean runs toward him, as quickly as his mud logged boots will allow. “You the idiot now, Nick?” Nick’s beard is soaked, water droplets clinging to the hairs, but he’s cheesing like he’s won the lottery, all expense paid vacation to Cancun.

Spring Break.

“Dean,” he yells, damn thunder necessitating it, “Dean, there aren’t any fish or anything washin’ up on shore. The way the tides moving,” he points unnecessarily at the waves. They’ve been coming in harder and faster the longer the hunters have been there.

“It’s coming in too heavy, and it’s too far away from the shoreline. Nothing dead has washed up. Nothing’s even showing up alive and getting sucked back in!”

Dean knows his face is mirroring Nick’s own, goofy ass grin slicing up cheeks, big bite of corn on the cob in his mouth. “Alright. Alright!” Grabs Nick’s shoulder for good measure, shakes him a bit. It’s not much, and they don’t know what it means, won’t understand til they do some research, but it’s the first point of entry they’ve found.

Dean calls Sammy regardless of time, as soon as they’re inside Nick’s house, welcome rugs kicked as far away from them as possible, rainwater sluicing off of soggy clothes in droves. Dean braces his body against Nick’s wall, coffee-colored wood, and kicks off his tightly laced boots as best he can.

He’s grunting when Sam picks up, curse of relief falling from his lips when the second boot finally slips free. “Dean?” Sam calls, all worry in his voice, and Dean laughs, joy covering his tongue. “Sammy boy, I got some cold hard facts for ya.”

Nick’s clothes are in an indistinguishable heap near his, and Dean can hear him faintly call “Just one fact, Dean, don’t get his hopes up!” Dean smiles toothily again, runs his fingers through lube-slick hair. “One fact, Sammy,” he amends, heart pleasure-thumping with the fact that he’s talked to Sam twice.

_Twice, now._

Doesn’t matter that Sam’s not here with him, couldn’t leave sunny Palo Alto to come and hunt

_Classes, Dean. Got like four papers to write. I don’t--man, I don’t want back in that. S’not me, anymore._

Doesn’t need to ask Sammy to know what he’ll say. Knows his brother is doing this, with him and for him, cause it’s Sam and Dean. Probably be buried together, cause they’re a cross. Limbs nailed up in tandem, til it’s finished.

His brother sounds genuinely happy, and though that nags something sore deep down, Dean’s not selfish enough not to be proud. Einstein's found his niche.

“You and Dad’s friend go back and check the Lake out?” Dean fusses with his shirt, tugging that over his head with one free arm, and braces the phone with his neck. “Who, me’n Nick? Yeah. Went back there, no better than before Sam, I’m more than 70% water now, I’ll tell you that. But uh, nothing’s washing up on shore, Sammy.” Dean pauses to let this sink in, gives up on the effort of trying to slide drenched denim down equally soaked legs.

His brother’s quiet for a second, dead silence, and then he’s speaking, rapidly. “No wildlife at all, Dean? Minerals, vegetation, nothing?” Dean grunts. “Not a damned thing, Sam. Fish ain’t even getting pulled in and out by the waves.”

He can practically scent his brother thinking, lining up all possible routes in his head, picking them apart like jigsaw puzzles, grinding the ones that fit together. Dean knows enough to be silent when this is going on, field mouse. “That’s something, Dean. Big something. We knew it was some kind of presence, but now we know it’s got some kind of concern for aquatic life. It’s gotta be ensuring that they’re not getting harmed. Waves and pressure like that’ll kill, normally.” Dean stands, paces in excitement. Nick’s back downstairs now, slings a towel over Dean’s bare shoulder absently. Quirks an eyebrow in question. “Sammy says the water-bitch is protecting any life in the Lake.” Nick whoops so loud that Dean knows Sam can hear it in Palo Alto.

“Alright, then! Now, we only need to know why.” Nick erupts, water sliding from his beard to land on his pectorals, and he shoves at the droplets in mindless irritation. Sam’s all brooding dead air again, and Dean rolls his eyes. Always hated feeling left out. “Boy Genius. You still with me? We already know everyone who died was there fishing. Clearly, monster’s mad that something is fucking with the fish. Giving us plagues because of it.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Had to study for a test yesterday, but later, I looked up everything I could on Lake Crescent. Might be easier for me, I know the power has to be sketchy there.” Dean snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sammy. I’m no good at looking shit up, and you always loved it. Did it like jacking off.”

Sam gasps indelicately. “Shut the hell up, Dean.” Dean’s grinning, winks good-naturedly at Nick. “Don’t lie. What was that thing you went on about one whole summer? Bolshevik Revolution? Assassination of that one dude? Their King, right?” Dean sighs, eyes drifting shut. “Y’know, if I thought hard enough, Sam, I could remember everything you ever told me about it .”

Dean can hear his brother’s laughter, low with sun and jagged, slicing at the open places on his skin, pressurized brand on his brain. “Tsar of Russia, Dean. Nicholas Romanov, the Second.” Dean opens his eyes, tingles of good humor still lingering in the air. Apple pie and vanilla ice cream, swirled. “Uh huh. What’d you learn about the Lake?”

Sam’s still humming to himself, and Dean’s pleased, Sam’s loose and happy, languid limbs probably sprawled out behind his desk, Alpha musk invading every crevice. This is the Sammy he created. Perfect storm. “Created about 8,000 years ago, product of the Ice Age. Went through some environmental reform, changing landmasses, all that shit.”

Dean settles near Nick, and feels the chill suddenly shake through his bones. Nick glances at him sympathetically and pads to the kitchen. “The British,” Sam says the words with some disdain, and Dean stifles a groan, this is obviously something that history-buff Sammy feels fucking strongly about. “obviously felt the need to colonize. Started doing it later than they explored other nations, early 18th century, honestly.”

Dean’s befuddled. “Why’d they wait so long? Didn’t catch the memo to head out when Spain was marrying off its daughter and sending Columbus out to sea?” Sam chuckles, throaty beast, and Dean can hear the Alpha he spent the latter half of his formative years growing up with. “Knew you listened in class, sometimes, Dean.” Dean waves a hand, momentarily forgetting that Sammy can’t see him. “Someone had to hold a conversation with you, Sam. You were a mathlete. Athlete of Mathematics. Don’t get much sadder than that.”

Sam huffs and continues, visibly ignoring his brother. “This has to do with the Lake, I swear. Anyway, they didn’t care about Polynesia and Melanesia way back in the 1500’s, cause they didn’t have enough natural resources. Potential export wasn’t enough to outweigh the costs. They got around to it, though, adventurers they were. And, you know the drill,” he says, “killed everything they touched with diseases, brought some of the indigenous people back to Britain, subsequently brought ‘em over to the Americas. Sent some of them as indentured servants.”

Dean’s silent. “Lemme guess, some of them ended up in Washington.” Sam’s voice is matter of fact. “Guessed it. The ones that didn’t die took to the land, I guess. Tried to re-establish some semblance of culture in their new home.”

Nick’s puttering around in the kitchen and Dean follows suit, limbs sore from the the stomping he’s been forced to do in response to the flooding. “I’ve been looking at their customs, since I dug all this up, but you telling me about the fish narrowed it down a lot. Cause I was going through their beliefs based on water alone, and that was no fucking joke.” Nick looks dead on his feet, but expectant, pumped about whatever Dean’s brother is coming up with.

Dean’s all pride, smiles real big up at him. “I think--” Sam speaks with some hesitancy, and Dean stands, knocking his stool backwards and he bends down to retrieve it, all heightened nerves. Dean knows, from experience, that when Sam sounds like that, all lost and a bit focused, he’s probably on to something. Sam never trusts his first guess, not ever. But that’s fine.

Dean’s always been there to trust it for him.

“Go on, Sam.” Sam sighs. “Sounds like an Abaia, to me.” Dean rubs at his eyes. “Come again?”

“Abaia. Big eel that lives in freshwater. Considers all creatures within the lake its kids, and protects ‘em from anyone who’ll harm them.” Dean hisses, slaps his fist on the counter and Nick jumps, mildly alarmed. “Floods them out?” Sam snorts. “Yeah. Waves are caused by it splashing its tail. It’ll drown an entire area if it keeps getting disrespected.”

Dean leans back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. “What triggered it? Shit’s probably been in there, undisturbed for hundreds of years, and I know people have been fishing in the damn thing.” He can almost feel Sam’s frustrated shrug, and oddly, it placates him. “I don’t know. You gotta dig around at the locals for that one. But I do know how to appease it. At least, before you can destroy it completely. Cause you guys don’t have any power over the damn thing.”

Nick hears that last line and grunts, Alpha rumble in his chest, concave, first real sign of anger Dean’s scented from the man, and he twitches in his position. “What do we gotta do, Sam?” He can hear the flurry of Sam’s fingers on his keyboard, and then, “gotta sacrifice something to the water. It’s got to mean something on land. Says here an animal works best.” Dean guffaws. “What, like Abraham and Issac?”

Nick looks amused. “We need a goat? I can find us a goat.” Dean’s glaring at him, wide-eyed, but Nick looks dead serious, and Dean’s too exhausted to question it. “Alright, what then? We pitch the thing in the Lake? What happens next?”

Sam sniffs. “Kill it, throw it, and it should be pretty good after that. This is the bandaid solution to a hole-in-the-dam problem, but it’s that or the whole town gets flooded out.” Dean hangs his head, belly button close. “Sounds do-able. Nick can get us a certified four-legged creature. Stone table, too.” Nick’s laughing, silent tears rolling down his face.

Sam doesn’t reply, and the phone feels like a cinderblock in his hand. “M’tired as fuck, Dean. Call me when you guys finish, wanna know how this goes.” His brother’s gone then, juxtaposition of dusk and dawn. Dean wants to feel more ecstatic, but he’s soul-weary, and Sammy’s gotta be, too.

In the end, Nick buys the goat, fair and square, from Ms. Laughton, in town, charms her out of it with a grin. Her smile leers on both of them, sizing them up, and Nick seems accustomed to it, but Dean’s not in the appropriate headspace, and actually manages a small blush. “Come by for dinner, you two. Out in this hellish rain.”

Nick inclines his head politely and Dean hurries along, irritated at himself. She was hot. He could’ve gotten warm by her fire.

Nick slits the animal’s neck with Dean’s knife, and it’s a clean slice, goat dies almost instantly. Dean’s never been a fan of murdering innocent things, but Sam’s right, as usual. There’s not much of a choice, here. They toss the limp animal in the rising water together, scarlet running with blue-grey, obligatory penance.

Dean’s face itches something fierce when the rain stops, off like a damn switch, it’s there, then it isn’t. Doesn’t even know what it’s like to be outside without constant dampness eating away at his pores, growing algae on his skin. He can smell again, fully, Nick’s complacent scent, early morning dew and cream.

They return home, and Dean’s clothes are drying as he sits on Nick’s couch, cracked brown leather, real lived in feel. Boxers clinging wetly to slender thighs. Got a new pair for the road, twisting and turning in Nick’s Maytag, beaten down and worn. Nick sits on the edge of the couch alongside him, dressed in a similar manner, tired of the sound of the machine churning away like so much doom.

“Thanks for coming to help me, man. Would’ve been hard to do everything alone, even if I’d managed to figure everything out myself.” He looks down at his hands, weathered by rain. “Might call you later, if that’s alright, see how to take this thing down for good.” Dean nods. “More than willing, man. Someday, someone’s gonna ignore the Sheriff’s call not to fish down there.” Nick’s smiling, worn grimace underneath his beard.

Faces Dean sideways, hands dropping into his lap. He’s not breathing for a long moment, and Dean can hear it, the abnormality. “Shtriga killed my son. Three months old. Killed my wife, too, but that was more by proxy. Hanged herself from the rafters in the attic.” He drags his palms up his legs, heavy, relic of different man. “Haven’t, I haven’t had anyone in this house, with me, since then.” Dean’s mouth is tight, can feel the way his blood is bubbling at his skin, searing.

“Thank you, for that. Dean.” Dean’s cuddled in Alpha praise, unintentionally, and he whisper-sighs, palms resting over brick-laid eyes. “You know about my mom, if you know my Dad at all.” He can sense Nick’s nod, thick and languid. Can scent how close Nick is, and Dean realizes, formidably, that he was mistaken. Nick’s not mild-mannered at all.

His Alpha’s just on a tremulous leash.

Nick’s scent smells like mint and wildlife, loaded guns and game. Dean snaps his eyes open and tips his neck to the left, slow glide, pulse thrumming in his head, trapped butterfly. Nick’s growling, tugs Dean into his lap, all feral Alpha strength, and Dean’s neck slides back, soft mewl. “Baby. Baby.” Nick’s muttering under his breath, licks and nips circling his neck. No bites. Dean knows an Alpha cannot bite there and release. All or nothing. Thumbs hooked on either side of Dean’s neck, just below his chin. Digging in til Dean gasps out, stutter of weak air.

“I don’t know--what it is--about you,” Nick’s palms drop to slice between their thighs, cup Dean’s ass and Dean arches into them, tingle spreading to his dick until it’s jutting from liquid-damp boxers, nudging at Nick’s abs. Dean can feel the flaming heat of Nick’s cock, nestled between the spread cheeks of his ass, and the stretch burns so nice, and he’s breathing like he’s running from Hell itself. Wants to rut, knows Nick will carve up all the leftover pieces of not-Dean, non-flesh.

“Can I have you, Dean? Let me own you. Screw you on my knot.” Alpha-orders, laced in a low thrum of a growl, possessive and pleading at once, and Dean’s nodding, tears creeping in at the corner of his eyes. “Uh huh, yes, fuck me, fucking do it--”

Nick shoves boxers down, mid-thigh, Dean can feel the slick exposed to air, feel it sop onto Nick’s lightly haired legs, collect and slide to the floor. Nick holds him up by the waist, drags his own boxers down and thrusts in, to the hilt, no pretense. Dean flings himself forward so his head rests on the crevice of Nick’s neck, pants like a wounded animal as Nick takes control of his hips and pounds him home, threatening rumble scrambling up from Nick’s chest, to lay on air and breathe.

Dean’s crying, tears covering Nick’s shoulder, little hole spasming around the good-deep push of his cock, growing girth of his knot. Nick gathers the slick on his own leg, smears it around Dean’s dick, twists and curls his hand tightly. “Come on, baby. Fucking come on me. Come on, Dean.” Dean’s climax is a whimper-shout, and his body jerks in phantom release as Nick shoves his knot home, slicks Dean’s inner channel with his seed.

Pups he can never have.

Nick’s cradling Dean on his dick, sound asleep when his cock finally slides free, and Dean wakes up himself, can move again. He’s sore in every regard, sand constructed limbs, and he wants, Jesus Christ, he wants too much, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He treads upstairs softly, opens the dryer and pulls on his still slightly warm clothes, grabs the duffel he’d packed earlier.

He limps downstairs, stops to glance at Nick. The bearded man is holding his fists together, locked air between them, boxers jerked back to original placement.

“Dean.”

Dean knows that tone, invented it, most likely, and he stutter-sighs, clenched deep in his gut.

“I’ll see you,” Dean says clearly, eyes downcast all the while.

It’s the closest Dean Winchester can come to a promise. 

**Author's Note:**

> The case is not completely solved, only temporarily alleviated because of Sammy's giant brain and proclivity for research. I'd love to know what you guys thought!


End file.
